


Saturn

by hiraeth



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brainwashing, Cults, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nonbinary Character, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-16 19:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11835726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiraeth/pseuds/hiraeth
Summary: An AU in which Nicolas has the opportunity to escape the cult. He takes it, and Orion, and runs.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Writing is something I like to do casually when I'm not drawing. This is the first written work I've ever shared online, and I don't have a beta, so any mistakes or issues of quality/skill are all on me. This particular story is an idea I felt like exploring based off the comic I'm working on.

Nicolas scraped more mud off his boots. The leather soles were wearing thin; in some places mud had begun to seep through. Nicolas considered simply letting it dry; at least then it might patch up the holes and keep some of the moisture out. He flexed his toes and rubbed the dirt out from between them.

“The first town we come to I’m stealing us a horse,” he muttered. Orion sat silently beside him. 

They had said little in the day since fleeing, likely processing all that had happened. It was a ritual gone wrong. Strong coastal winds had blown flames from the sacrificial pyre towards chanting members who stood downwind. In their panic they scattered, and some brought the flames on their robes to the dry grass in the fields nearby. A chain effect occurred and in a short amount of time furniture and other items within the temple began to burn. Nicolas and Orion had been lucky enough to have been standing on the side of the circle upwind. Others beside them had rushed to help put out what fires they could. Nicolas saw his chance to escape and had no other thought than to grab Orion and run. Orion had screamed as he pulled them away; for a moment, they had even struggled to break free of Nicolas’ grip. Though he was pleased to know Orion was capable of more than being pliantly manhandled like a rag doll, Nicolas took advantage of that trait and hauled Orion’s small body into his arms and trudged down the hill towards Chamber. Smoke filled his lungs and heat licked at his back as the flames grew. Others screamed and fled around them, aiming for the wet earth of the rotting hamlet below the temple. Nicolas hoped their escape would go unnoticed in the chaos. In his arms, Orion had fallen silent, staring directly up into the black, black sky.

Now they stared dully at the scarred hands in their lap. Tears carrying their eye paint had left dark streaks down their face. The black on their top lip was smudged at the corners, pulling their mouth deeper into a frown. Then they spoke.

“We need to go back,” they said.

“It's all burned down. There’s nothing there,” Nicolas countered.

Orion’s eyes moved towards Nicolas while the rest of their body sat perfectly still. It still unnerved Nicolas.

“They have all become part of a sacrifice. We must return to join them.”

Nicolas’ jaw clenched and he closed his eyes. He liked to think he could be persuasive and charming when he wanted to be. He’d made his way into isolated Brekkenridge without being killed, and he would have sweet-talked his way straight back out of the mountain city entirely if that had been possible. He’d gotten himself out of the dungeons, at least, with help from none other than the heir to the throne. He considered it an overall success. His easy smile and his silver tongue had gotten him, among other things, a small ship of his own, rare maps, secrets, wine reserved for nobles. It wasn’t hard.

Talking to Orion, however, was like talking to the void. A small, impossible, infinitely frustrating version of the void. Nicolas had learned early on that Orion was one of a particular sort of people who did not appreciate Nicolas' charm. It was a shame. Nicolas was still trying to get over it.

 _It was a tragic, meaningless accident,_ he wanted to say. For the thousandth time, ever since they had first met, he wished to hold Orion’s gaunt face and tell them _You deserve so much more than this and I need you to understand that._

Nicolas opened his eyes. Orion had still not moved and actually seemed to be waiting for a response. Nicolas rubbed the space between his eyebrows.

“We needed to get out of there, or we would have caught on fire. I don’t want to die, and I don’t think you do, either.”

Nicolas heard a hitch from Orion’s throat and could tell they had stopped breathing, if only for a moment.

“It is what I must do,” they said finally, roughly.

“Nope,” Nicolas said as he got up, joints creaking. He patted away the dirt on his ass. His patience had run out. “What we need is to keep moving. I’m tired, and hungry, and I want a bath. Lyra once told me there’s a town less than two days south of Chamber, so we should be nearly there. If we can make it up that hill, I'm sure we'll be able to see it.”

He glanced down at Orion, who still sat cross-legged and hunched, having resumed staring at the ground, or perhaps nothing at all. 

Nicolas pulled on his boots. The mud he had left alone cracked and crumbled into the ground. “Come on,” he said more gently. “There isn’t much light left, and who knows what else might be out in these fields.”

Orion remained still. At once Nicolas was reminded of one specific boulder, a stone marker in the Sinking Sea. For all that he had seen and knew about that sea, the stone marker seemed to be the only thing that wasn’t affected by the water's namesake, hadn’t slowly sunk into its depths like everything else attached to the sea floor. Once he had nearly crashed into it; now it was a point on his map, reminding which way he was headed whenever he passed it by.

“Let’s see, why else should we get going?" Nicolas wondered aloud, nearly to himself, as he looked around to watch the warm pinks and purples on the horizon. "What about those wild dogs that creep around Chamber? A flock of crows? Your ass going numb? Do any of those things sound terrible…” Nicolas trailed off when he looked down recognized the glazed look in Orion’s eyes. If not that, the way the ragged fingernails of one hand had already dug into the flesh of the other to draw blood was a dead giveaway Orion had begun to pull themselves into a trance. They did this in order to achieve what they believed was a much deeper form of communication with their gods than a simple prayer. Orion was scared.

Quickly Nicolas pried their bony fingers apart, and carefully arranged their limbs so he could carry them in his arms again. Small for their age and dangerously thin, Orion was hardly a burden. Nicolas did his best not to jostle them. He knew what would happen if he forced them out of a trance like this, when they were in this deep. The immediate resurfacing to reality was jarring and painful, he had learned. And so he was careful. He was also terribly, terribly grateful for his companion’s catatonic state, allowing Nicolas to carry Orion more swiftly over the soft earth than if they were walking side by side.

Orion began to whisper prayers Nicolas could barely hear, meant only for the ether, while Nicolas navigated through lumpy, sodden fields. Though he knew at least in this instance it really was for their own good, a part of him couldn’t help but feel guilty at being just the next person in Orion’s life who was deciding for them what they should do. When Nicolas stumbled on a hole in the ground and lurched forward to catch his balance, his head bowed down so closely his nose brushed against Orion's scratchy wool robe. In between the rest of the frantic words to their gods, Nicolas' ears picked up a small “Forgive me,” whispered so quickly he thought he might have imagined it.

Above them the sky darkened.

“I know,” he said quietly, gripping Orion closer to him as he spirited them away from their home and the mire. “I know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orion craves normalcy. Nicolas says, "Can I offer you a cup of water in this trying time?" Orion doesn't know what cups are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each member of the cult is given the name of a constellation. Nicolas is named Volans - the flying fish. Incidentally, Nicolas was born in a small fishing village, which he fled when he was young. Not only does Nicolas reject this name because he refuses to be a part of the cult - it also reminds him of his past. He had left not only his home, but his family as well, and he feels that he abandoned them. Orion does not know this, and thinks Nicolas' recalcitrant nature is simply due to him having a particularly difficult time as a new recruit.

Orion drifted. As always, they felt, rather than saw, the presence of the gods gently surrounding them. It was bliss. Though they were without their blade, their fingernails had evidently drawn enough blood to please the gods. More than enough, in fact, if Orion felt this good. They could not recall ever feeling so relaxed. They wondered if they had died.

The surface they lay on dipped nearby. Startled, Orion’s eyes fluttered open, and they discovered they lay on an unbelievably soft pallet. A high ceiling sat above them, somehow made entirely out of wood. _Where did all of that wood come from?_ Orion shuddered at the realization that they did not know where they were.

“Orion?”

Perched nearby was Volans, watching them steadily; so Orion hadn’t died after all. Though Volans was the newest disciple, he did not seem to have much of a desire to sacrifice himself to the gods. He did not even seem to want to worship them. Orion did not understand.

“Are you hungry?”

Orion’s stomach felt hollow.

“We eat at the bell," they said. "Wait until you hear the bell. Do not think of it otherwise. You must position your thoughts toward the gods, _Volans_ ,” Orion stressed. Sometimes Volans insisted on being called a different name, one Orion had never before heard of and refused to speak. It insulted the gods. Orion had seen marks from where Volans had been punished for wanting to use the other name. At the mention of his true name Volans’ mouth stretched in an odd smile, and his eyes were sad.

“There is no bell. We’re in a room, second floor of the tavern -- we made it to a town. It’s called Whitewood. I already ate, and I’ve got you a bowl of stew here. There’s even some new vegetables in it you can try.”

Orion blinked. They could barely understand the things Volans talked about any day, but at this moment it was particularly difficult. They latched on to what they could interpret.

“I will take a fast.”

Volans exhaled sharply. 

“Why don’t you sit up?”

Orion did not answer. Instead they continued to wonder about the ceiling made out of wood. The temple was made from limestone. In the muddy valley below, some dwellings were raised up on stilts made of wood, but Orion had never seen any trees nearby that they could have come from. Orion was once told that a forest sprawled east of the temple, where there were many trees, but when they tried to look Orion only saw a dark streak on the horizon, and they never thought about it again. Until now.

“Okay. Well, if you want it, there’s stew and bread on the table over here. Pitcher of water too. Go ahead and rest some more if you want, but make sure you eat at least some of this before the flies do. I think I might get a bit more sleep myself.”

The edge of the mattress lifted as Volans stood up. It was then that Orion realized they were much higher off the floor than was possible with a regular straw pallet, and they wondered if they had been placed on an altar. And then, they thought about the fire. The screams of their fellow disciples echoed through their mind. Quickly their eyes squeezed shut and their face contorted into a grimace. They felt days old paint crack and flake away from their eyelids. They needed to apply a new coat. To do that they needed blood, and soot, and ashes. For that they needed to be in their room in the temple, which they were clearly not. A strangled sound caught in their throat.

“Shit,” Volans muttered, and then Orion felt a hand on their shoulder, warm and barely there. Then it disappeared and moments later the edge of the bed dipped again. A hand snuck behind the space between Orion’s shoulder blades and pulled them up into a sitting position.

“You don’t have to open your eyes,” Volans said softly - Orion could barely hear him over the rushing sound of waves that had begun to grow in their ears - “but I want you to drink this. It’s just water.”

The thin, cold edge of something pressed against their lips, which they parted to let the cool water in. It did not taste like the water Orion drank at the temple, though it was not unpleasant. Orion would never tell anyone, but they enjoyed drinking water.

When it was gone, Orion remained unmoving with Volans’ arm holding them upright. In the darkness behind their eyelids they tried to imagine what stars would look like. Then Volans’ voice broke through their thoughts.

“I'm so relieved to be here. It's hard to imagine, but we're safe. I bought us six nights in this room, and I brought us here last night, so we're here for five more days. I figured we could plan out what to do next once we rest up and get our bearings straight. You were out for a while.”

Orion had opened their eyes while Volans spoke. His hand on their back was firm, and it felt good. It reminded them of the comforting hands of the Exalted Engel. Whether on their arm, or back, or neck, it was grounding.

“You wanted to leave,” they said.

“I did. I’m glad we escaped.”

Orion frowned. “I didn’t want to leave.”

“I know.”

“Will you let me go back?”

Volans stiffened. He swallowed. “Let’s stay here while we have the room. It’ll give us both time to recover. And we can explore the town - you can see what life is like out here. Wouldn’t you want to do that, even just for a little while?”

“It is a distraction.”

“That's not quite an answer." Volans smirked. Orion pressed their lips together. "And like I said, there's nothing to go back to. The temple caught fire."

Orion stared back. “I know. It was perhaps the actions of the black sun. Our world and the stars beyond us have many enemies. However, it is only a sign that we must continue as we have been chosen to do. I will seek communion with the gods. I will petition to them their return as is my duty. I would go back to the ruins and worship until I am called to be a sacrifice. Though the temple itself is gone, it does not change my purpose. I remain wholly their ever-stalwart servant.”

Volans looked ill. Orion wondered why. Volans was already aware of what Orion had been born to do. They had already explained their duties to him numerous times, so this information was nothing new. If Volans accepted his role as a proper disciple like he was supposed to, he would be eager to resume his tasks as well.

“Have you prayed yet today, Volans?” Orion asked. "If you have not, we can do it together. You must know all the prayers by now, but I will guide you through it. It is important that you recite the First Prayer as soon as you can. It will renew and prepare your soul if you are to be received by the gods on this day. That may happen as unexpectedly as the fire, and you must be ready."

Volans did not look well - his face was ashen with a hint of green - so Orion took hold of his free hand. "There is nothing to fear, Volans. You are wanted. You were chosen to do this. To be a disciple is to be a gift to the gods, and there is no higher calling on the earth than that. I do not understand your reluctance, but I have been told that it is difficult for new disciples to learn our way of life, especially if all they know is how to be disobedient and selfish, as you are. Let us begin-"

"No." Volans yanked his hand out of Orion's grip. He swiftly stood up and the absence of his arm supporting Orion left them to flop back down onto the bed. Orion watched him from where they lay.

“No, I haven’t prayed today, Orion. I never have, not sincerely, and if you think you saw me do it, I was pretending so I wouldn’t starve, or get beaten by whoever was standing closest to me."

Orion frowned. “Meals are only withheld if a disciple does n-”

“I don’t care! Orion, don't just lie there like that. Take control of your own body for voidsake. Think for yourself, express a fucking emotion for once in your life.” Volans was breathing heavily.

“When I pray, I feel-”

“Don’t,” Volans pleaded. “Don’t talk about that shit to me anymore, stop trying to insert every single detail of that fucked up doctrine into every moment you’re even aware of what’s going on. It’s all a lie. Engel probably warned you about someone saying that, but I swear to you, everything you’ve ever been told was made up by a scared, insecure man. People died because of him. They gave up their lives because he told them to. You - you’re missing teeth, you're covered in scars, you're thinner than a beggar and the void knows what else you’ve done to yourself before I showed up. Or had done to you. It’s a lie, Orion, and you deserve to be your own person and take care of yourself. You deserve to have the capacity to even want to do that.”

Volans took a deep, shuddering breath and ran a shaking hand over his disheveled ponytail. He was staring at the floor, as though trying to find the trail his boots had followed during his tirade. Orion noticed lines of fatigue under his eyes. They had seen a similar look in disciples who had forgone sleep in favor of meditation and prayer. Orion had always tried to encourage Volans to do that with them. But exhaustion did not suit Volans. He looked haggard, and defeated, and he always, always seemed upset about something. Orion wanted to offer advice on what type of prayer might lift his spirits. They opened their mouth to speak but Volans broke in:

“Just… eat some food. You’re skin and bones. I’m going to sleep. Please don’t leave. Please stop reciting everything you've ever been told. We’ll talk more when I can think straight.”

At that Volans all but collapsed onto the other bed in the room. Orion sat up, and went over to the table that held a bowl of what must be food, as well as the pitcher of water. Orion was parched, and, admittedly, hungry. They took the bowl and stared longingly at the pitcher. They could feel the paint cracked and flaking off their dry lips. With a small shake of their head they turned about the room. A chair sat in a corner, but it was nowhere near the table. Orion knelt on the floor and scooped the stew into their mouth. It was cold, and Orion was feeling an odd numbness after Volan’s tirade. They could barely taste what they ate, but it filled their stomach more so than any meal they could remember.

 

Orion was attentive, and responsible, and well-behaved, and so they did not speak the next day if they could help it. They of course answered questions that only required a “yes” or “no," but anything else they could have said would be in some way related to the teachings from the temple. Volans had to have understood this when he made the demand that Orion not do this, and so Orion was confused when Volans kept seeking their thoughts on more complicated topics, and giving them concerned looks when they did not answer. Perhaps it was a test.

“Do you have any questions about where we are? Do you want to walk around the town today?” Volans had asked late that morning, the day following his upset.

“No,” Orion answered steadily. Treacherously, Orion was curious, if only a little. While living at the temple, Volans’ descriptions of life outside of it had initially repulsed Orion, and they refused to allow Volans to elaborate. But during the quiet hours when disciples were allowed to rest, Volans would break the silence to tell stories and recount what he called adventures. Orion always discouraged this behavior, but they also felt a craving to hear more. A part of Orion did want to go outside. However, they had to remain focused on what mattered. They wanted to return to the temple. They wanted to perform their daily sacrifice.

Volans had left the room that afternoon to buy more food, "run some errands," he had said, and refill the pitcher. At first, Orion thought he was taking it away to remove its tempting presence. Either way, with it gone they were abashedly grateful. They did not need any further distractions for what they were about to do. In the silence of the room they set before them the bowl they had licked clean of stew the previous night. Kneeling beside the bed and facing the wall, they used what teeth they had to tear into the flesh of their forearm. Blood quickly welled up and flowed in rivulets that dripped into the bowl, in time with the throbbing sensation from the wound. They sighed in relief and watched the contents of the bowl fill up. 

They had not been able to do this properly since fleeing the temple fire, and it felt good, and right, to resume. With their free hand they reached into their hood which they had pulled up, and around to the back of their head to rip out a handful of hair. They opened their hand above the bowl, letting the dark strands float down to settle on the surface of the blood. Their other arm continued to pump out more on top of it. 

With a shaking hand, Orion dipped their long center finger into the bowl. Without soot and ashes to mix it into a paste, and without anything proper to burn with the candles in the room, they had to make do. They closed their eyes and applied a coat of red on the left lid and then around it. “Though I see only darkness, I know what was once there,” they began, adopting the uniform tone of voice appropriate for a ritual. They gave the same treatment to their right eye. “Though I see only darkness, I know what will once more be.” Next, they moved on to their top lip, dipping their finger into the bowl for more blood and carefully dabbing it along the rough, cracked skin. “May I speak only those words that honor the gods. May my lips identify me as a servant to the celestial divine. May these prayers find a home in the ears of the most gracious of beings which we worship.” Orion then pulled a stripe of blood horizontally across their forehead, and from the middle of it, a perpendicular line that just barely touched their hairline. “I kneel humbly beneath the sky. Above me is the domain of the gods.” Orion drew a line from their top lip down to the bottom of their chin. “Below me, the void.”

“I will do as I am commanded, and I will not do as I am not commanded,” they continued. “Each star is a god, and each god demands blood. Each star is a god, and each god demands blood. We must atone for the sins of the world. Each life given back to the gods is light returned to the sky. We must atone for the sins of the world. Each li--”

A hand gently gripped Orion's shoulder and they fell backwards in panic; off-balance, their legs sprung out from underneath them, kicking the bowl and sending it flying against the wall. Blood and hair dripped down from the area and splatters covered the wall and worn wood floor. Orion lay completely still in shock, save for their uncoordinated, gasping breaths. Their heart pounded madly, and their arms trembled, frozen in place in front of their chest. Blood now dripped down the inside of the sleeve of their robe and Orion was reminded of Volans' first weeks as a disciple; he had interrupted their prayers many times, and Orion sometimes wondered if he had done it intentionally. It was no less of a shock each time they were pulled out of their deep, meditative state.

They stared up into a face rendered nearly unrecognizable, as contorted and twisted as it was with emotions Orion could not identify.

For a moment they stared at each other. Then Volans’ eyes flicked over to the source of the blood dripping down Orion's arm. Quickly he stepped away and Orion heard the sound of cloth ripping. Volans, whose hands also shook, took hold of Orion’s arm and pulled it away from their body. Then he poured a dark red substance on the wound. Its color was nearly indistinguishable from blood, and it stung. Volans wiped away what he could of the blood and the other liquid, then tightly wrapped a clean strip of cloth around Orion’s arm, finishing it off with a couple knots. Something soft was placed underneath Orion's head, propping them up and away from the floor. A tall and narrow wooden bowl was thrust down towards Orion’s face.

“Drink it. It’s water,” Volans said roughly. For once his voice sounded just as devoid of intonation as Orion’s had mere moments ago. Orion took the bowl with both hands and drank, emptying it quickly.

“Thank you, Volans,” they said, surprising themselves with the amount of feeling behind the words. They were still thirsty. Ashamed, Orion looked away, towards the blood splatter on the wall.

Volans took the bowl out of their hands and after a moment, set it back in between them. It was filled nearly to the brim.

“Drink.” Orion eagerly emptied it more quickly than the last. “Voidsake, I don’t know if I’ve seen you have any water since when you woke up yesterday.” Volans went over to sit down on his bed. Then he sighed, and sat down on the floor, closer to where Orion lay. Orion’s gaze followed him silently. “I’m sorry. For - doing that to you. I tried calling your name, but I know you can't hear anything when you're as deep as that. But you -" He waved his hands helplessly before letting them flop back into his lap. "- can't keep bleeding yourself out like this. And I'm sorry about yesterday. I was angry. I’m still angry. I've had nightmares ever since I started sleeping in that cell. The things that happened in that-that place were... horrifying. It's gone now, but I still feel terrified. I keep waiting to feel a blade slice into my skin, or hear chanting, or that damned bell. And sometimes I do." Volans paused to consider the bandage on Orion's arm. "And then I'm back there again." He reached over to take away the empty water bowl and carefully pulled Orion's arms down from their hovering position so that they rested on the floor, along the length of their body. "You shouldn't want to hurt yourself. But I can’t make you see-- You’re not--” Volans paused and dropped his head into his hands. His next words were muffled. “Merciful winds, I'm so sorry. What-what am I going to do."

Orion frowned. They did not understand what Volans had to be sorry for now, as he had apologized for interrupting them already. For a long while Volans said nothing, and when Orion saw tears falling from his down-turned head, they realized it was because he was crying. Orion watched him silently from his supine position. Volans' strong, wide shoulders shook with grief and pain.

Almost beyond Orion’s awareness, something stirred in the back of their mind. In the pressure against their arm from the tightly wrapped bandage, in their fingertips where they had held the tall bowl, in the absence of the hard floor against their head, they felt that something had clicked into place.


	3. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cult moments from the past. Orion's cellmate Vela leaves, while someone new appears. Who could it be?   
> Heads up, this chapter ended up pretty dark. Present-day Nicolas POV will be back in the next chapter :-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try not to go into detail or describe anything that happens too explicitly, but the situations themselves I think require a warning. The very first section is sort of a flashback that centers around implied and briefly mentioned child abuse. I've marked off the beginning and end with an asterisk (*) so take care of yourself if this is a difficult subject for you. Summary in end notes. Further along in the chapter is a suicide and a lot of focus on the body/its remains. The entire chapter is full of, you know, bad religious nonsense. Writing this story out is simultaneously aggravating and cathartic.

*

Many Years Ago

“They are a child! You cannot beat them!” Anya screamed.

“Calm yourself, Pyxis. If they are not punished, they will not learn.”

“For being hungry? For crying? It is what any child would do.”

“True disciples know to eat or drink only what is set before them by those who have been given proper authority. And I encourage disciples to weep when they are overcome with their passion for the gods. A child wailing from hunger is not productive to our mission. Its cries will not get it more food, of which we have little, and it should be grateful for what it is given. An act so selfish and indicative of greed must be punished.”

“You _can’t,_ ” Anya pleaded.

“It is what I must do,” Engel said. “You are aware of the ‘options’ before you, and you have already tried to leave our teachings with your babe once before. Did the people of Chamber not reject you? Did they not chase you out of their decrepit town with stones and dirt? Did the wild dogs not circle you?” Engel shook his head. “That is no life for you, and that is surely no life for a child. To be raised in the dangerous environs of the outside world…” He tsked. “Here, they are safe. Here, _you_ are safe. All I ask is that you be a part of our family. We care for each other, but we also follow rules. It is how we maintain order. Without it, we would be no better than those vicious half-wits in the mud.”

Anya stood frozen, her face burning and eyes full of tears threatening to spill. Moments ago during the sunset meal she had surreptitiously slipped a chunk of bread from her own rations into her child’s hands, which they devoured within seconds; still they were hungry, looking to her with wide, desperate eyes. She had told them there would be no more food until the next meal, and they had begun to cry. Nearby disciples realized what had happened and alerted Engel immediately. She did not know what to do. To her knowledge, there were no trees nearby to flee to. Only the endless ocean, and the wet, sinking fields. She had thought of this many times before. She did not know what to do.

“Bring the child to me,” Engel said, breaking Anya out of her thoughts. From a loop on the belt of his robe he produced a slim metal rod, similar to those used to hold the candles around the altar. Two disciples shuffled forward with Anya’s little one in their arms. They had stopped crying, and now looked to her in detached confusion with the fingers of one hand stuffed into their mouth.

“Wait,” Anya said weakly, unable to raise her voice for the lump in her throat. She could barely breathe.

Engel looked to the disciples that held Orion. “Hand me the child. For taking what was not theirs to take, and for wanting more than what they have, they will be punished. Then take Pyxis to the meditation room. For giving what was not hers to give, she will be punished. May you utilize your time in the room to consider, Pyxis, how you would like to conduct yourself if you wish to remain here. I believe you have the potential within you to be a good disciple. And I believe in the same for little Orion, as well. For the safety and well-being of the both of you, I encourage you, Pyxis, not to interfere with raising the child, unless you can prove to me you will do it properly.”

Firm hands gripped her arms and began to pull her away, but it wasn’t until she saw Engel carrying Orion away in one arm, and holding the rod with the other that Anya struggled and began to scream once more.

“Don’t! Put them down! Let me go! _You can’t do this!_ ” Anya was in near hysterics when Engel and her child disappeared down another hallway, toward the large communal space where everyone else had been gathered to watch.

Anya was dragged away towards a small, dark room in the opposite direction, out of sight of the other disciples. She had just managed to jam her heel down onto the toes of one the disciples who held her. She heard the crunch of broken bones but lurched with a sudden nausea at the thought of the same sound coming from her child. Then she was thrown into the room, and locked into darkness. Anya pounded on the door and screamed for her child until her hands bled and voice cracked.

Orion lay trembling, curled up alone in mother’s pallet. They were cold, and afraid, and they hurt all over from their lesson. They wanted to cry, but they were afraid that the Exalted Engel would see, and know. And Orion would be punished again. That made them want to cry as well. They bit their lip and pulled their limbs tighter around themselves. Where was mother? Would she ever come back?

Night terrors plagued them whenever they managed to fall asleep that night. At times they would cry out in fear, or call out for mother. She never came to wrap her arms around them and tell them everything would be alright. There were no gentle kisses on their head, no hand rubbing their back. That night Orion and mother’s cellmate, Vela, reached over and hit Orion until they learned to be silent.

*

“For decades now that accursed hole in the sky has plagued us,” the Exalted Engel said. He looked out over the gathering of disciples beneath him, arranged in a circle surrounding the stone slab of an altar in the clearing near the cliffs by the sea. Hisses and whispers arose at the mention of their celestial enemy. “It has poisoned our soil, faded the sky’s light, and corrupted humanity's hearts and minds.” Disciples murmured their assent. “Most importantly, it has upended the natural order of our world and the next, by evidence of the disappearance of the stars. The gods that once ruled over this earth seem to have vanished-abandoned us, even.” Engel paused in his slow stroll across the elevated ledge on one side of the altar. He took an unlit candle and transferred to it the flame from the only other source of light in the growing darkness of the evening. Two candles supported by tall poles now flanked the long ends of the altar. “But we know that is not the case. The gods are still here, and alive. Though they have been weakened, they are not gone. Perhaps they cannot protect us or bless us as they used to, but that is only what we deserve for what we have done to this world, and to each other.” He lit another candle. “Only through our piety and sacrifice can we hope to appease the gods. By offering ourselves to them, we give them our strength. Our lifeblood fuels their return.”

“When the gods are reborn, they will wipe out the black sun, and restore our world to the way it once was. No longer will we live with hunger or sickness, war or greed. Our crops will prosper, and our hearts will be full.”

Engel stopped his pacing once four candles for each corner of the altar had been lit. "Vela, if you would come forward, and kneel before the altar and your gods."

Vela emerged from the circle, which closed in behind them. “Disciple, you have been a part of our mission and a member of our family for over twenty winters. You have demonstrated loyalty, submission, dedication, obedience, and honor not only to your peers and elders, but more importantly, to the gods themselves. On this the moonless night, may your offering of body and soul bring us closer to the return of the stars." Engel produced a small dagger so pristine it could have been used as a looking glass. Vela took it with a bow.

Vela’s corpse was laid bare upon the altar, underneath the black, moonless sky. Not a half hour before they had sliced open the artery in their upper arm after uttering the prayer of offering. Within minutes they had bled out, drenching the altar and some nearby disciples in a spray of blood. A calm ocean breeze brushed against the skirts of the robes of those circled around to watch.

"The offering of the soul is complete. We step forward, now, to collect the blood and proceed with the prayer for the burning of the dead."

Disciples gathered round to scoop up some of the blood that had pooled on the surface of the altar. In unison they spoke the prayer as they covered their faces entirely in blood.

"Hear us, o gods," all said. "See that we offer before you the blood of Vela, who has given themselves up freely in order to beseech you to return. Protect us from the black sun. Return to us, o gods."

Engel took one candle and held a vial of oil in the other hand. Sparingly he dripped some of the oil across Vela's bare corpse. In the moist northern climate along the coast, fires were not easy to light. The body anointed with sacred oil encouraged the flames as they began to consume skin, tissue, and blood. Sparks and flames carried pieces of the body up towards the sky until disappearing into the darkness. The disciples watched the body burn, waiting attentively for the flames to engulf the corpse entirely. While this went on, the Exalted Engel began the chant for the sacrifice.

“Vela, we give back unto you,” the Exalted Engel began.

“A body whence came from you,” the disciples answered.

“Light from light.”

“Spirit to spirit.”

“Our blood is yours, Vela.”

“Accept our offering of blood.”

A mixture of voices spoke the responding chants. The black robes and bloodied faces of the circle of disciples were a ghastly sight. The members of the temple continued the chant until the flames died out, and only the bones and ashes were left. Each disciple had their own bowl for daily rituals carved out of ivory. When it was time, each one took enough handfuls of ashes to fill their bowl, to be used in the mixture of ritual paint and personal devotions. The moment they all stepped back into place, a resounding _crack_ like the sound of a lightning strike tore through the silence of the night. Many disciples dropped their bowls in surprise and fear. All looked to the sky, and waited. Nothing but the crashing of waves and distant wails of the wild dogs made a sound. Nothing but the darkness of the empty night sky towered above them. The disciples’ eyes and ears strained in anticipation and hope, or fear. Many outstretched their hands to the sky in supplication.

When the first soft colors of dawn emerged, the disciples looked to Engel for instruction. He looked out over his flock. “We will proceed with the procession of the dead. After the remains are put to rest, I will seek answers on this happening from the gods. And so we begin. Lyra, if you will.”

From between her long flaxen locks of hair a voice droned out the words to the next chant. Lyra’s was the deepest voice of any of the disciples; she was well suited to her role, and was glad of it. The disciples filed back into the temple, each taking with them their bowls and the bones of Vela. The procession traveled down into the cellar, and even further down than that, through narrow staircases carved out of the rock and slippery, wet. Among them Orion chanted; a feeling of calm and oneness filled them. Their mind was occupied at the moment, but when next they had the chance, they would wonder when they, too, would be deemed worthy enough to be a sacrifice.

The next day, after the disciples had slept, they went about the temple and the grounds with their assigned chores and duties. One such was to gather a sample of fish from the ocean, to see if they were yet edible, and not shrunken and full of poison as they tended to be. It was then that the two disciples who were to perform this task that day saw the body.

The pair of them scrambled back up the narrow cliff-side trail and bolted through the temple. They skidded to a stop outside of Engel's door. “Exalted one,” a disciple said out of breath with head bowed. “There is… a body on the shore.”

Engel frowned, and bade them enter. The two collapsed to their knees before Engel at his desk. He stared down at them past the sheets of parchment in his hands, past the gilded tomes.

“Might it be… something to do with the sound from the night? Is it a message from the gods?” one of them ventured.

“It is,” Engel said with confidence. “Go tell the others. Once we are all gathered around the altar, we will begin a retrieval."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To summarize what happens, Orion and their mother Anya are separated from each other and are both punished after Anya shares some of her food with them.
> 
> Also, Engel gave Orion their name. Anya named them something else prior to joining the cult, but it's so secret and precious, even I don't know it. Neither does Orion.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orion doesn't know how to deal with emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like things are progressing relatively quickly, but If I tried to be more realistic, we probably wouldn't get anywhere. Another thing - Orion is terrified of their situation and during moments when they feel vulnerable or uncertain, they are especially receptive to suggestion, and a confident word or command from Nicolas grounds them. They were raised to be obedient, not to do much thinking for themselves, after all. Sometimes they can catch on when Nicolas is being condescending or insensitive. They're out of their element, though, and it's hard for them to keep their head straight.

Nicolas lay in his bed after hours of restless tossing and turning, unable to sleep. He was also too tired to get up. He was thrilled, giddy, with the fact that he had gotten out of the nightmare he had been trapped in for the past six months - and not including the mess in Brekkenridge before _that_ \- but he was also exhausted. He ached to return to his life, but he was scrambling to try to figure out where to begin to reacquaint himself with it. Especially now with a fully devout, malnourished death cult member in his care. Before his capture at the hands of the invaders, nearly a year ago now, Nicolas had been negotiating personal trade deals with a cartographer, named Maeve, and her business. He wondered if would be able to resume correspondence with her, or if she would remember him at all. Her shop was squeezed between two large warehouses in the business district of the port city Siren. If anything, Nicolas could get an idea of what part of the world Whitewood even existed in, and travel to Siren himself. He _had_ promised to acquire a horse, at the time for the sake of his aching feet and weary legs; logistically, he would need one if he wanted to get anywhere. He itched to keep moving, and quickly, to get as far away as possible from the accursed place of his captivity. And maybe, hopefully, he could leave some of the memories behind him as well.

Nicolas turned on his side and his eyes fell on the black-clad figure in the bed next to his. An image in his mind of their time sharing a cell together in the temple came upon him, and he squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered. Nicolas took deep breaths in the hopes it would clear his head. Instead his thoughts wandered to that of his cellmate.

Nicolas knew that Orion had no way of overcoming a lifetime of deception and mistreatment, of such a severe upbringing, in three days. But a part of him had somehow foolishly hoped that a change of location would help them to understand their situation in a larger context. That an actual town would bring out the curiosity Nicolas knew Orion had buried away in their mind. Another part of him worried nothing could be done, and Orion would eventually slip through his fingers and kill themselves, or spend the rest of their life bleeding themselves dry every day so the sky would stop being empty.

Nicolas took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. Truthfully, it was simply too early to tell.

He sat up and grabbed the bottle of wine he had gotten yesterday, taking a deep swig. A peek outside the window told him it was already approaching midday. Orion could wake at any moment. Unless they skipped sleep entirely and were already awake, members began their day just after the sun had reached its apex. From midday to sunrise they worked; prayed; bled; received counsel from Engel; participated in group confession, wherein each member wracked their brains for every tiny mistake they’d made that day and were then punished for it. They were given three ladles of water per day - one when they first awoke, along with a piece of dry bread, another during the sunset meal, and another before they went to sleep. The main meal at sundown took place at the long communal table in the temple's great hall. It consisted of some kind of tasteless cabbage and root vegetable concoction held together in a thin, watered-down broth. Nicolas had wondered if some members killed themselves just so they wouldn’t have to go through the agony of starving to death. 

During his time in the cult he had come to feel a mixture of sympathy and pity for each of the members, but Orion especially, and not only because the two had shared a room together. Though every other member had essentially been forced to join the cult in order to survive and escape their sinking hamlet, they were still fully cognizant adult people who made that choice for themselves, as shitty and manipulative as it was. Orion had been born into it. Though he lived with the result, Nicolas still could not fathom what that was like.

He rubbed his forehead and watched Orion’s narrow chest rise and fall with slow, measured breaths. Dried blood covered their face in the shape of the lines they had painted. As always, their cheeks were hollow and dark shadows tinted the blood beneath their eyes. Orion likely had never had a chance to sleep past the strict schedule they adhered to; Nicolas bade them to rest early last night once he had managed to dry his tears, and he would try to let Orion continue to rest for as long as possible. In the meantime, he would keep himself busy.

After venturing outside to get some fresh air, stretch his legs, and get a better feel for the town, Nicolas returned to the room with more bread, some fruit and cheese for himself, and a bowl of hearty soup for Orion. It was now just past noon, he had learned. Nicolas nibbled away at his lunch and had just finished composing a letter to one of his contacts in another town, Port Camden, when Orion stirred. He looked over and met Orion’s gaze, which was already locked onto him; Nicolas suppressed a shudder as he wondered how long Orion had been watching him in that silent way of theirs.

“Good morning,” Nicolas said. “Well, it’s the afternoon. How did you sleep?”

“I dreamed,” Orion said.

“Were they good dreams?” Nicolas asked. At the same time he got up and brought a cloth and a bowl of water over and sat on the edge of Orion’s bed.

Orion’s gaze focused inward as they considered the question. Then they looked back up at Nicolas. “I don’t know.”

Nicolas nodded. “That’s fair. It’s hard to interpret dreams sometimes. Some people try to guess at their meanings, but I usually like to think they don’t mean anything at all.” He dabbed the end of the cloth in the water. “That dried blood must be uncomfortable. I want to wash your face. Will you let me?”

Orion looked at the cloth, and their face compressed into misery. The fingers on both their hands pulled in and loosely grasped the bedding beneath them. They swallowed. “If you must do it. The g-” they stopped themselves and froze. Nicolas waited, unsure of what had happened.

“Orion?”

“If you must do it,” they said blankly.

Nicolas chewed the inside of his cheek in hesitation but figured it would be the best response he was going to get. Gently, he wiped away at the stripe of blood on Orion’s chin. It came away easily, but Nicolas noticed a faint stain that had been covered up by the blood. He frowned. When he cleared Orion’s top lip, it appeared slightly darker than the bottom one, as well.

Orion’s eyes were already closed by the time Nicolas was ready to clean around them. With care he cleaned away the blood on their eyelids, and noticed there, too, the skin had been stained from hundreds, likely thousands, of applications over the course of most of Orion’s life. Nicolas wondered if the marks would ever fade away.

“The dream had no meaning,” Orion said while Nicolas attempted to clean out the blood that had gotten into their eyelashes.

“Hm?” Nicolas rinsed the cloth in the slowly darkening bowl of water; he wrung it out before wiping away at the area underneath Orion’s eyes.

“There is no need for interpretation, for my dream meant nothing.”

Nicolas moved on to Orion’s forehead. “I see. What did these dreams entail?”

Orion said nothing, but watched Nicolas closely.

“You don’t have to answer,” Nicolas said.

“Do you want me to?”

Nicolas frowned. “That isn’t important. We’re just talking. You can answer or not. If you want, you can skip the question and talk about whatever el-”

Nicolas’ hand stilled at a spot on Orion’s forehead when the realization had hit him. Even as he was about to tell Orion they could speak their mind, he had mentally prepared himself to hear another lesson about bloodletting or being reminded of some horrifying anecdote. But Orion had been abnormally quiet for the past day, stopping in the middle of a word or declining to say anything at all. And now Nicolas remembered why.

“I told you not to talk about what you learned at the temple,” Nicolas said, half to himself, half to Orion.

“Yes.”

Nicolas resumed cleaning away the last of the blood on Orion’s forehead, struggling to work around the paradox of his desire for Orion to have free will, but preventing them from exercising it at the same time.

“As foolish as it is, I have chosen to honor your request, though I am certain that you and I will be punished for this. It is not right that I-” Orion’s fingers gripped the bedding more tightly. The skin over their knuckles was stretched thin, appearing bone white. “Th-that we would abstain from speaking of what I know to be true, as though it is a shameful thing.” One hand released the bedding and Orion’s long middle finger stroked and traced over their now clean top lip.

Nicolas sat back and placed the cloth and the bowl on the table.

“Alright. Who do you think is going to punish us?” he asked. Truthfully, this was as much of an exercise for Orion as it was for Nicolas. His heart had begun to pound at the mention of punishment.

Orion looked up. The stains around their eyes were faint, but it was enough that they still looked intimidating. “The gods have their ways,” they said ominously.

.

Nicolas had gone back to penning letters while Orion bathed with the rest of the clean water. They had tried to insist on using the bloodied water; before the words had finished leaving their mouth Nicolas had dumped the bowl's contents out the window and onto the street below, and forced himself not to think of Orion wanting a blood-water bath and any implications it held, ever. Nicolas' back was turned as he sat at the desk while Orion scrubbed themselves down. Typically bathing at the temple was done once every new moon; Orion and Nicolas, therefore, had actually bathed quite recently. But days on the run and the freedom to bathe at will were reason enough, Nicolas thought. Orion had balked, but he was able to convince them to at least start with their feet, which were filthy and covered in mud from the fields.

It was quiet in the room save for the scratching of Nicolas' pen. Once the sounds of sluicing water and rustling fabric had died down, Nicolas had given it some time to let them both enjoy the silence in their own way. When Nicolas was just about to begin another letter, Orion spoke up.

“It was a memory,” they said.

Nicolas turned around at their voice and waited in case they had more to say. When it was clear that they did not, he asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Orion stared at Nicolas with an unreadable expression. Then they looked away. Whether from the dream, a longer night of rest, or some other reason altogether, Orion seemed more subdued this morning. Nicolas hummed.

“Let’s get some more food in you.” He stood up and grabbed the bowl of soup and a piece of bread. “Looks like this one has celery in it, like the soup from yesterday. Did you like it? I never saw celery in the garden at the temple."

Orion took the bowl and hesitantly placed one end of the crusty bread into the soup. They peered up at Nicolas. “It is food,” they said, almost but not quite forming the words into a question.

“It is.”

Orion’s gaze fell back into the bowl. Though their mouth was closed their lips worked, pinching and stretching while they thought. Then they frowned. “Perhaps this is a dream as well.”

Nicolas sat down once more on the edge of Orion's bed. “It’s not. It’s all real. I know it’s scary, even I-” Nicolas paused and licked his lips. He looked down at his hands in his lap. “-I can’t imagine what it must be like for you. Everyone else you knew is gone. And your routine is a little bit different now. I want to help take care of you. Will you let me?”

Orion glared at Nicolas and a corner of their lip curled up revealing a yellow canine and an empty black space next to it. “I am not helpless. I am not a child. And for you to speak so carelessly of our work and our life at the temple indicates that you are hardly in a position to make decisions for either of us. I obviously have made a mistake in deferring to you.” Orion stood up and shoved the bread into the soup and forcefully placed it on the bed away from them. Nicolas flinched at the sudden movement, which in turn caused Orion to step away, pulling their arms against their chest and pulling their head down towards it. From their hunched form Nicolas heard a prayer being muttered, words swift and tripping over each other.

Nicolas watched sadly, once more at a loss for what to do. He had tried to focus on feeling hope over pity, but in these moments when Orion verbally attacked him, as they had done so often at the temple, the whole thing felt like a lost cause. Orion’s aggression towards Nicolas wasn’t anything new, and in their current situation, came as no surprise. He had wondered when the initial shock would begin to wear off and the looks, the cutting remarks, would return. He sighed.

“Orion,” he said gently after minutes of trying to wait out their frantic prayers. Their hands trembled and they tugged at the bandage wrapped around their arm.

“Hey, hey, hey, don't mess with that.” Nicolas stood up and carefully took hold of Orion’s wrists and pulled them apart, away from their chest. He looked at the stain on the bandage from last night. “Why don’t we redress your arm, huh? Then I’ve got an idea, I’ll see what you think of it once we get this taken care of.”

Nicolas pulled Orion’s good arm down to their side and stretched the wounded arm out towards him so he could untie and unravel the bandage. It was a nasty, ragged wound. Dark bruises surrounded an ellipse of gouges. Skin was spared where Orion had no teeth, but in places where their remaining teeth were more isolated, the bite had been much deeper, having been able to break the skin that much easier. Nicolas grimaced and vaguely wondered if, somehow, that was intentional. Blood had crusted but the deep punctures looked like they wanted to ooze. “Give me just a second.”

Once Orion’s arm had been cleaned and bandaged thoroughly, Nicolas sat them down and took up the bowl of soup and bread once more. Orion stared morosely at their lap, just as they had in the fields while the two fled the temple. “Why don’t you break your fast, Orion.” Nicolas handed the bowl over to them, and waited until they took hold of it. “You’ll feel better, and you’ll be able to think more clearly, too. It wouldn’t do for someone like you to be taken down by hunger, of all things.”

“‘Someone like me,’” Orion repeated tonelessly. “A servant, and nothing more.” They bit into the bread, now softened after soaking up some moisture from the soup. They jerked back after swallowing the first bite. “This is…”

“Taste okay?”

“It is… I-I….” Orion used the piece of bread to scoop up a mouthful of soup. Their eyes bulged as they held the food in their mouth, jaw and tongue working to move it around inside while they tasted and chewed. Finally they swallowed, and inspected the bowl’s contents more closely. “Are you sure this is alright..” they mumbled absently, tongue darting out to carefully taste it once more.

Nicolas struggled to contain a grin. He had learned firsthand that though the members of the cult had the ingredients necessary to make decent food, they chose, or were forced to have, a disciplined and restricted palate instead. Bland vegetables in a thin, watery broth was a common meal. They lived on the cliff shores of the ocean and Nicolas had rarely sensed any presence of salt in the food. Nicolas thought the chance to eat food with flavor would be one of his favorite things about his return to freedom; and it was, but seeing Orion’s first-time reaction to it was a treat in itself.

“You had the stew last time, yeah? Didn’t you think that was good?” A toothy smile brightened Nicolas’ words.

“I did not taste it,” Orion answered. They began to eat more quickly, now, using the bread to scoop the rest of it into their mouth and finally devouring the softened bread in just a few bites. Nicolas hadn’t gotten them too large of a portion, hoping to ease their stomach into richer foods slowly. Orion studiously licked the bowl clean, and when they set it down in their lap, Nicolas wouldn’t have been able to tell that it had been used at all.

“Good?” Nicolas asked. His cheeks hurt from an uncontrollable smile. He didn’t mind the ache; he hadn’t had a reason to smile in a long, long time.

Orion stared at the empty bowl as both body and mind digested what they had just experienced. Their eyes then traveled up to meet Nicolas.’ It would have been easy to miss, but Nicolas was familiar with Orion’s face after months of living in close contact: a delicate crinkle beneath their eyes that softened the intensity of their gaze. It wasn't a smile, but it was warm nonetheless.

“Good.”


	5. Chapter 5

“So,” Volans said once he had cleared away the dishes and made sure Orion had had some water. “I was thinking about some things,” he began. “Your robes, first of all. They’re filthy. Surely you’d like something new to wear?”

Orion frowned. They did not understand what Volans meant. They had worn these robes since they were a child, after having grown enough that a simple tunic was no longer adequate. Of course, they’d had another set of robes for when the other needed to be washed. Each one had been passed down to Orion from disciples who had sacrificed themselves.

So, yes, their robes were filthy. But they simply needed a washing. Where would new robes come from, anyway? Volans’ own set were nowhere to be seen. He had worn his clothes from Before underneath his robes, and upon arriving to this room, had evidently removed them in favor of dressing as he did in his previous life - trousers and a loose tunic, with straps across his chest to hold trinkets and tools.

Each little action by Volans to disobey the teachings of the Exalted One grated on Orion. During their time together at the temple, Orion and the other disciples had worked so diligently to ensure Volans’ spirit was ready for sacrifice, and intentions as a disciple pure. Sometimes, Volans had performed well. His confessions had seemed genuine, his blood offerings generous, and his words of prayer had been full of passion. But during what was meant to be the silence of their sleeping hours, Volans would speak. During his first night he had told Orion he could not sleep in the pitch darkness of the windowless room. His breathing had turned into panicked gasps, and he would occasionally wake Orion from his night terrors; sometimes on purpose by shaking their shoulder, and sometimes on accident from a shout or a wail.

Orion was obedient, and had learned their lesson from Vela early on about how to conduct oneself during the sleeping hours. They could still feel each blow to the head, and back, and arms, and anywhere else Vela could reach while flailing at them in the dark when Orion was young. The worst pain was a cold and tight feeling in their chest, below the skin, that Vela had never touched, could not have touched, but had somehow caused anyway. It hurt worse than any cut from a dagger. It hurt in the same way when Pyxis would greet Orion in the hallways, or, for whatever reason, when she ignored them altogether.

Orion was accustomed to pain, and spent little time dwelling on the specifics of things they ‘liked’ and ‘did not like.’ But they would admit that they did not like that feeling, strongly enough that they tried to avoid it whenever it came up. Volans’ fear of the dark and apparent need to fill the silence of the night with stories and nonsense and questions that Orion did not answer made Orion annoyed and angry at first. They had tried to correct Volans in the same way that Vela had taught them - with a blow, a kick - only once, that first night. Volans had cried out and retaliated as though _Orion_ was the one who had done something wrong, and the pain in their chest lingered the entire next day. Why would Volans be a part of their family if he refused to behave? But the more time they spent together - in moments such as when Volans would visit Orion while they fed the chickens (may they have died swiftly and painlessly, or, if they lived, may they continue to do so in peace, and with food aplenty); when Volans would wash his laundry at the same time as Orion, and try to make a conversation out of thin air; when they would sit next to each other during meditation - these things built one upon the other to the point where Orion hurt when Volans could not sleep. When he was afraid to stand up and make a confession. When he shook before giving his blood to the gods.

Orion had made a private condition with themselves: they would not tell anyone of Volans’ shortcomings as a disciple, if Volans did not tell anyone Orion never punished him for it, as they were supposed to. It was a circular sort of thing, but it eased the pain in their chest, if only just a little. Memories of living with Vela as a cellmate, as good and pious as they were, stayed Orion's hand, and muted their tongue.

Because of this, Orion thought sometimes, they might not be hardly any better than Volans. Especially now when they had done such things as deserting the temple and had their face paint washed away. Orion shuddered. Perhaps the gods would turn away from them. At any rate, Orion could not let themselves falter from their duties any more than they already had.

“I do not understand,” Orion answered honestly. “I already have robes. Perhaps I would need a tunic to wear in order to wash these and my leggings, if there is one to be found. But I do not know where such a thing could come from. While we speak of it, what have you done with your robes, Volans?”

Volans winced. “I sold them.”

Orion’s eyes narrowed. “Coin.” That was one of the reasons Chamber had become the desolate place that it was. Coin was, of course, a facet of the outside world: one which Orion considered with contempt, though they had little experience with it firsthand.

“Yes, well,” Volans waved his hand. “Makes the world go ‘round, and all that. You know, I’d rather not have a glaring cult beacon of a black robe if it meant not starving to death. The money I got for it from the seamstress was enough to feed us for the week, and then some. It was a lot of wool, apparently decent quality too.”

“You sold them. Volans, you cannot turn away from these teachings so - so carelessly,” Orion bemoaned. “Perhaps you find it difficult, but-”

“I did. It was difficult for me, because I didn’t want to be a part of it. I didn’t choose to be there.” Volans paused and frowned into the distance. Then he shook his head. “I don’t worship the gods. I’m not a part of that. I’m from… here,” he waved his arms to encompass all directions. “I’m from the outside world, you know that. My name is Nicolas, and I have coin." He patted the fat leather purse on his hip. "Let’s go get you some new clothes.”

Orion protested as Volans stood up from their bed and began to tighten the straps slung across his chest. Orion did not want to go outside, to be infected and influenced by the outsiders. The pitiful people of Chamber came to mind when Orion thought of those who lived in the outside world. Then again, Volans was an outsider, too, and he was - Orion could not think of a word that fit, other than tolerable. But he was also disobedient, and selfish, and wrong. He had also cleaned Orion’s wounds, and made sure they had enough water to drink. He gave Orion food that tasted good. Volans - Nicolas? - was good, the back of Orion’s mind insisted.

“Aren’t you at least a little curious?” Volans asked with a grin, and something of a twinkle in his eye. Orion pursed their lips. Yes, they were curious. The sounds coming from the window, opened barely a crack, were enough to make Orion want to run out of the tavern all by themselves just to see where they came from. Clanging, yelling, the sounds of animals familiar and strange, young voices, old voices, sounds Orion didn’t recognize at all - they had to know. When Volans had opened the window to toss out the bowl of bloodied water, Orion chanced a peek outside. It was bright, and there were people, and buildings, and smells. Then the window had been shut, and Orion’s focus snapped back to narrowness.

“It’ll be fun, and I’ll keep you safe. It’d be good to stretch your legs and get some fresh air, I think. I’ll see if I can get you one of those raspberry tarts I told you about once. I promise, ‘outsiders’ aren’t going to jump out at you or cast a curse on you or anything. They're just people.”

Orion slid off their bed and patted out the wrinkles in their voluminous robes while Volans sauntered towards the door that led out of their room. “Why would they cast a curse on me?” they asked and had to move quickly to catch up to Volans, who now leaned against the doorway. Volans merely started laughing and walked out the door. “Volans? What will they do to me?” Volans threw his head back and his laugh echoed loudly in the hallway. Orion couldn’t know this, but his mirth had developed into pure, ecstatic joy.

Down the stairs they went, worn floorboards creaking beneath them. The sounds of the bar grew louder as they approached. Orion hunched their shoulders and pulled their hood up and stared resolutely at the back of Volans’ boots. They imagined outsiders waiting for them, gathered to throw rocks or jab at them with garden tools.

“It’s not too busy right now,” Volans said softly. “There’s only a few people here. You’re okay.” Orion felt some of the tension ease within them.

Suddenly Volans stopped and Orion walked straight into his back. They looked up to see what had happened. A man, impossibly larger than Volans, and covered in a bright, colorful assortment of garments and clinking gold jewelry blocked the door to what presumably was the way outside.

“Oi,” he said in a deep, rough growl. “You called Nicolas?”

Volans relaxed his stance, putting more weight on one hip and resting a hand against it, though Orion could see a line of tension going straight down his back.

“I might, I might not be,” he said, tilting his head casually.

“Well I think you _might,_ ” he emphasized the word by brandishing a small, yet deadly-looking knife, “have stolen my coin.” He grabbed Volans by the throat and pressed the needle-like tip of blade against the outer corner of Volans’ eye.

“From someone as discerning and well-off as yourself? That sounds dangerous,” Volans said lightly, his voice slightly strained from the grip on his neck. The man shook him a bit. “I assure you we’re strangers, and I only steal from people I know.”

The man sneered. “Name’s Cato. Now we’ve met. And you’re a thief.” He flicked his blade once, drawing a thin line of blood from the outer corner of an eye upwards past the eyebrow. He quickly pocketed the knife and reached for the coin purse on Volans’ hip. He was stopped by Orion, who had gone unnoticed during the confrontation, and had now captured Cato’s wrist in a weak grip. Cato jerked his hand back in surprise; the vice around Volans’ throat had weakened as well, and Volans pulled away, herding Orion further back into the bar.

“What has he done to you?” Orion asked, tugging on Volans’ sleeve. Volans whipped his head back and frowned at Orion. There it was, above their fear-filed gaze, a line of blood that had begun to drip down, and almost looked like a teardrop. “He bled you? For a ritual? For some kind of curse?”

“No, O-” Volans began. Orion shoved past him and marched toward Cato, their line of vision narrowed down to nothing but the other man’s eyes. Down at their side their thin fingers were outstretched and stiffened into the semblance of claws. They stood before Cato, a man over twice their height and size, pointed a knobby finger up at him, and spoke.

“A fool is one who would cast a curse so lightly. Volans’ purse is filled with nothing but metal and stone, for all that it is worth. And you would posture at wasting his life on such a meaningless novelty. If Volans took from you, then he was right to do so. A town should be so lucky that a degenerate like you would find himself with less. Clearly you do not suffer for it." Orion flicked at a gold chain hanging across Cato's abdomen in disgust.

“Beneath the black sky tonight I will let my own blood. I will pray to the gods, and I will mention you by name. They will know it. And when you die, you should hope that your carcass is devoured by crows, for if the gods so will it, they will cause something much, much worse to happen to you.”

Cato had paled and his mouth worked silently, unable to respond. The bar had quieted at the beginning of the encounter, but now it was completely silent. The bartender was the first to find her voice.

“Out,” she growled.

“Yep,” Volans muttered. He took hold of one of Orion’s arms and pulled them towards the door, around and past Cato, who watched Orion go by with shock and fear etched into his features. As they walked by, Orion bared to Cato their teeth and the spaces between them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicolas you idiot

Nicolas did not stop leading them away from the tavern until he had nearly reached the gates on the opposite end of town. They stopped in an alley home to rats and wildflowers.

“ _Shit_ , Orion,” Nicolas said at the same time that Orion asked, “Are you alright?”

They reached up to wipe away the blood on Nicolas’ cheekbone. Nicolas flinched away, unable to hide his reaction in time.

“Do you feel anything? What does this curse entail? Cato’s life will not end well, I promise you. His soul is not a worthy sacrifice, but the gods will find other uses for him, I am sure.”

Nicolas was taking deep breaths now and he turned away from Orion. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back a bout of dizziness, but memories of pain and blood and chanted litany flashed through his mind. He couldn’t stand to feel so vulnerable, not again, not so soon. He didn't know what would have happened if Orion hadn't been there. Would Cato have let him go? He seemed just as likely to want to kill Nicolas, despite marking him for others to see. His death would have been a warning to others, anyway. Orion themselves had been characteristically verbose; when they saw an opportunity to educate others on any matter regarding their beliefs - and in Nicolas' experience, he himself was typically the target - they seized it enthusiastically and with a tongue sharper than a knife. Nicolas wiped away at the blood, mostly smearing around what was still wet. He clawed away at what had dried. He heard Orion’s footsteps come around to face him, but he ignored it. He was too busy focusing on forcing the tingling in his nose to dissipate, and trying to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“It wasn’t a curse, Orion,” he croaked. A sound bubbled up out of his throat that was a sob and a laugh combined. “I was making a joke earlier. H-he just marked me so now everyone in this town knows to avoid me.” Nicolas rested his back against the side of a building and slid down so that his knees were folded up in front of him. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubbed, being careful not to agitate the cut, but despite his best efforts, it stung anyway. “I’ve seen some beggars around with the same mark.”

“Is that not a curse? One of a physical nature, yes, but I have heard of people in Chamber who-”

“Please stop talking,” Nicolas said. A small part of him felt a pang of guilt for interrupting, but that was quickly swallowed up by the panic that had been growing since Cato appeared. It threatened to spill over now; it felt barely contained. Nicolas felt claustrophobic. His chest felt tight. “I need to get out of here,” he mumbled.

He pulled his hands away from his face and blinked. Orion’s black robes were the first thing he saw. “Dammit,” he muttered. He wanted, so badly, to curl up and hide, or scream. Instead he took another deep breath and forced his shaking legs to stand up. He looked out towards the wide open gate of the edge of the city, purposefully avoiding the intense, wide-eyed gaze that he knew was directed up at him.

“Orion,” he said in as calm a voice as possible. It wavered, and it sounded too loud in his ears. “I need to go outside right now. I want you to come with me so you don’t get lost, or hurt, but I need you to be quiet. Please. And don’t do anything to hurt yourself. Just come with me.”

Then he started walking. Orion followed closely behind, and out of Whitewood they went.

Nicolas lay on the grass on a hill just outside of Whitewood. Orion sat beside him, hugging their knees and looking about the landscape. Nicolas kept his gaze on the gray-blue sky, and the fat, lazy clouds. It was a beautiful, beautiful day. He couldn’t help but think that if he had just picked a direction and run during his time in the cult, he likely would have come across this town, or another one nearby. He would never have had to spend months being tortured, beaten, and starved. Instead he had stayed, injured when he had initially arrived, but for all that he was able to reject the cult's teachings _now_ , Nicolas had to admit to himself that in some ways, they had gotten through to him. In some ways, particularly regarding their impenetrable fervor and penchant for self-mutilation, Orion repulsed Nicolas. Knowing, and witnessing, what they were willing to do to themselves and others for the sake of their beliefs churned Nicolas' stomach. And having known that behavior would have been expected of him as well had made Nicolas feel even worse. But he could not deny the magnetism of their character, one that expected nothing but compliance to the one man and the many gods they served. Orion hardly comprehended the possibility of dissension within the exclusive group of the cult. And when everyone around him expected him to join their family too, all thoughts of escape had retreated to the back of him mind, and moment-by-moment survival became paramount. Only when his life was in immediate, violent, external danger from the fire had he fled. And that in itself was mostly instinct. He slammed a fist into the earth beside him. It hardly made a sound and much of the impact just went back into his hand, which frustrated him further.

Would he be able gather supplies for the next leg of the journey now, marked as he was? The cut was throbbing, and he suspected the blade had been laced with something. It was true, he had robbed Cato. On his way to the tavern when he had first arrived in town he had walked past Cato, who had been pestering some wretch on the street. Nicolas had angled his path so that Orion’s legs dangled close enough to brush against the man, distracting him from the feeling of his purse being lifted. It had been easy enough, and he had been able to hide the pouch under the drape of Orion’s robes as he carried them. He had used the money to pay for their room, and all of their food so far, as well as parchment and quills. He had burned his own robe, had never met the town’s seamstress. It was a waste of resources, but Nicolas could not bear the thought of such a symbol of suffering existing in any form but... ashes. Ashes, and soot. Memories of that scent, not so far off from their source, entered Nicolas' mind, tingling his nose once more. Nicolas thumped the back of his head against the ground.

He wanted to forget and move on with his life. A journal he had picked up from his explorations in the past had described islands off the northwest coast of the main continent. Though he had never heard of them before, the information provided on how to sail to them were detailed enough that Nicolas had to believe it was true. He ached to travel there himself. But he was landlocked with panic-inducing memories, and someone stuck to his side like a burr whose mere presence could bring about such panic.

In a terrible and dangerous turn, Nicolas considered leaving Orion behind. _It’s what you do, anyway_ , said a voice in his head. _What’s one more? They wouldn’t even care._ It was true, Nicolas thought. Orion could not possibly have any care towards another, one who disagreed with them so deeply, to be affected by their absence. Nicolas was holding them back from whatever it is they wanted to do, after all. If they truly insisted on running back to a burned-down temple and cutting themselves up and pulling out their own teeth, who was he, really, to stop them? Orion was a grown individual; they should be allowed to make their own decisions. If they didn’t know or refused to acknowledge there were even decisions and choices to make outside of what they had been taught, that wasn’t Nicolas’ fault. The people responsible for that were dead, and Orion would have died with them if Nicolas hadn’t took them when he escaped. If they went back there to kill themselves, well - they would have died somehow anyway.

Nicolas heard the grass rustle beside him and he was brought out of the visions in his mind and back into the present. He wondered what Orion was doing right now. If they were praying, their arms had to be raw and bloodied by now. He could not imagine what else Orion even thought about or had inclinations to do.

When he felt a tickle against his temple he wiped at it and realized he was crying again. The fat clouds still floated slowly overhead.

“Orion,” he said. There was no acknowledgement or sound of movement, but Nicolas knew Orion’s eyes alone had traveled over to him.

"I don't believe in anything Engel taught at the temple. I'm not a member of his cult. Not just because it's gone - I never believed it. I didn't want to be there, and you saw me do things that may have made it seem like I was... like the rest of you, but anything I did was so that I wouldn't be hurt worse than I already had been. I've been trying to explain this to you, but I need you to understand this more than anything else: I don't believe in the gods. I'm not one of you."

There was silence, except for the sound of tall grass shifting in the breeze, and the buzz of summer bugs.

"I'm going to keep heading south until I reach a port that will take me back to where I used to live. I can't imagine you would, but you can come with me if you want to. I'm not going to make you do anything anymore."

Again there was no response. Nicolas looked over to Orion's hands, unable to look at their face. Orion's thin, knobby fingers twisted around each other; the black bands tattooed between their last two knuckles crossed and overlapped pale skin to create a puzzling arrangement of values. 

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

Nicolas waited, and waited, torn between frustration and relief that the conversation was not happening. Orion had probably gotten lost in their own head, like usual. Now that he was free from any danger it presented, he wanted to laugh at the utter ridiculousness of the cult. The stars’ disappearance was no more a divine event than the black sun’s appearance. Possibly they were connected, sure, and there was no solid explanation for either event, but it was simply some sort of astrological phenomenon. If one old man wanted to rationalize it with gods, and righteous vengeance, and a pious lifestyle, that was fine. But to blackmail an entire hamlet into following him - it was ridiculous. Anyone had to realize that. Whatever Engel got out of it was for his own gain.

Nicolas let his thoughts wander elsewhere across the world and its happenings and his heartbeat began to return to a normal rate. He relaxed into the grass beneath him, closed his eyes, and drifted.

The position of the sun when he awoke told Nicolas he had slept for a little over an hour. He sat up, stretching his arms and his back. He rolled his head from side to side to get the aches out of his neck when he realized that Orion was gone.

His first reaction was panic. _Where did they go?_ He stood up and look around, frantically, in all directions. He got up and jogged further up the hill to its peak for a better viewpoint. Nothing. _Why did they leave?_ Nicolas had told them to stay. Didn’t they know it wasn’t safe out in the open? Did they try to go back to the temple? Should he go that way to see? _Was it really his problem?_

“Fuck!” Nicolas shouted. Now that they were gone, all of his twisted thoughts and feelings turned in on themselves and gutted him from the inside. Orion was - important to him. Maybe not his _friend_ , but maybe as close as one could get to friendship with someone like Orion. And they were as close one could get to someone like you.

He hadn’t even spoken his darkest thoughts out loud but he wanted to take them back. Orion was a _person,_ and for the most part, considering their upbringing, what they thought and said and did wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know. Nicolas raked his fingers against his scalp. He always did this. _At least you’re not the one who actually ran away this time._

He puttered around and took another look along the horizon. If he was going on a search or not, he would need to pack up. Nicolas headed back to his room at the tavern.

The walk through town was mostly uneventful. People who got close enough saw the cut on his face, and put more distance around him. He guessed it was red and swollen and ugly, because that was how it felt. The barmaid gave him the stink eye when he entered.

“I don’t want you bringing any more trouble here. If I catch one whiff of you involved in doing anything - if you so much as look at something with covet in your eyes - I’m alerting the guards. And you’ll be thrown out. You can make friends with the dogs out there.”

"Yes, of course. I’m sorry for the trouble. Have you see-” he was about to ask her if Orion had come through, but it was at that moment that she went into a room behind the bar, after giving him a glare.

Nicolas jogged up the stairs and he couldn’t get to the room fast enough. When he opened it - Orion was there. Laying on their bed, curled up, sleeping.

Nicolas let out a shaking breath of relief. He smoothed his hand along his hair and let out a breathy giggle. He had been so worried. He had been - 

Terrible.

 

As he walked past the bed the sound of his boots must have caused Orion to wake up. Their eyes snapped open and they sat up, rubbing the side of their face they had been sleeping on with an oversized sleeve.

“Nicolas,” they said, and Nicolas’ heart hurt for some reason hearing them finally use his name.

“May I have some water, please?” they asked. There was no expectation in their voice or their face, as though it were entirely possible to them, expected even, that their request would be denied. Nicolas’ heart shattered.

It wasn’t that they were some mindless creature beyond hope of living a safe, fulfilling life, someone incapable of doing anything for themselves. It was that they needed help. They were a person, someone who was struggling to live and drink enough water. Nicolas saw their fingers twist around each other again, fingernails circling along the surface of the skin but not breaking it. They were _trying,_ and they had done absolutely everything Nicolas had told them to do since he pulled them away from the only thing they understood. They were trying, and they needed Nicolas’ help, and he had been about to abandon them. He had thought about leaving them to die.

In that instant it was clear to him that he had been seeing Orion as a personification of the people Nicolas had let down in his life before, and Nicolas need to set them straight, to fix them, stemmed from his need to assuage past guilt. He had seen them as a frustrating, living symbol of the captivity he had endured for all of six months. Orion was a human being, with a personality, and their own thoughts and feelings, who had endured that same captivity that brought Nicolas to his knees - just from thinking about it - for their entire life. Nicolas was weak, and selfish, and by the gods, he was a liar.

“Yes, yes of course you can have water, you don’t even have to ask,” he gasped out. His voice could barely fit past the lump in his throat.

Orion blinked owlishly at him, and then looked over to the pitcher. “It is empty,” they said. “And I do not know where the water comes from.”

“Oh, okay, yeah, I’ll go get some. Be-be right back,” Nicolas said. He got up and almost walked into the table he was so out of sorts. He took the pitcher in one hand, and the two bowls in the other. “Are you hungry? I’ll go get us some food, we can snack on it whenever.” It was all he could do not to run from the room.

Orion was still seated on the bed when Nicolas returned. He poured a full cup for Orion who took it and drank it quickly. When they were finished, their eyes flickered between Nicolas and the pitcher. Nicolas handed it to them. “As much as you like, there’s no rule about that here,” he said. Orion glared at him but proceeded to pour themselves cup after cup until the water was gone. They took a half loaf of bread and tucked it into the crook of an arm. Then Orion stood up.

“I am leaving,” they said. Nicolas raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“You’re - what - where?” he sputtered, but he knew the answer.

“The temple,” Orion said simply and walked towards the door. Nicolas’ heart pounded. A part of him wanted, so badly, just to let them go. It was their decision to leave. But it was a foolish decision, and the other part of Nicolas tensed his muscles in preparation to lunge at Orion and pull them back into the room. He was torn. He was scared.

“Can I come with you?” he asked instead.

Orion paused. They turned around to stare at Nicolas with their wide, open eyes. “If that is what you wish. However,” they looked to the side, gaze boring into a knot in the wooden wall, “it is clear to me that you are the outsider you have always claimed to be. I have witnessed you here in your element, where you surely thrive, in thievery, and deceit, and disregard for others. Such behavior, I have been told, is characteristic of those who remained in Chamber in the face of the Exalted One's calling. Yours is but a small example of the many reasons the gods have left us all here to rot, and why we of the Order have worked so hard to bring the people of this world back into their favor.

“It is as the Exalted Engel said: you were sent to us by the gods. But perhaps your purpose was not in living as a disciple, but rather something else. It is not for me to know; otherwise I would.

I have thought of these things. I do not take you by your word, but I have come to my own conclusion. You have abandoned the Order. And so I will no longer defer to your judgement, as I would with another disciple. If you accompany me, you should not expect to see your commands fulfilled. I will pray to my gods. I will go to the temple.”

With that they turned around and left.

Nicolas followed a few paces behind, suddenly self-conscious and uncomfortable in Orion’s close presence. What was he doing? Did he really want to go back? Suddenly he realized he had no idea what he wanted to do - a day from now, a week, months into the future. Numerous paths spread out before him, each one promising their own rewards and pitfalls. Orion’s, most of all, seemed a deep chasm in his mind; in front of him, Orion walked fearlessly above the open mouth of that void. Nicolas, behind them, trod unsteadily, feeling as though he would fall if he looked down, and wouldn’t stop. An eternity of nothing deeper than the Sinking Sea.

Each for their own reasons the two of them were attuned to the orientations of celestial bodies, and each had impeccable sense of direction. Nicolas knew they were headed north, on course towards the temple. He wondered at the wisdom of starting a two-day trip in the late afternoon, but Orion was a person of action, not planning, and Nicolas had decided he might try not to interfere with their decisions any longer. Partly to allow them the autonomy they had consistently been denied their entire life, and partly just to see what would happen. Clearly, all that he had done and tried to do had gotten them nowhere. Orion was not going to alter their way of thinking because Nicolas told them to. It was foolish to think otherwise.

Before they reached the edge of town Nicolas veered off to the side of the main street and purchased one more loaf of bread to accompany the food he had brought with him from the tavern. He had not been able to take the stew he had purchased there, of course. For all of the emotions rolling through him, he did not find it in himself much of a hunger anyway. When they approached the town gates Nicolas handed the rest of Cato's coin pouch to a beggar tucked into a corner there.

So they walked across the fields and hills back towards the temple. Nicolas was surprised not only at the brisk pace Orion exhibited, but at the unwavering consistency of it. He had seen Orion push themselves to - and past - their physical and mental limit at the temple, but he would not have guessed they had the capability to exert their undernourished body so thoroughly. Though it was misguided and misdirected, led astray by a rotten, twisted man, Nicolas marveled at Orion's strength of character.

Not long after the sun had slipped past the horizon, Orion abruptly collapsed onto their hands and knees, shaking and panting with exhaustion. The bread they were carrying tumbled from their arms into the dirt beside them. Nicolas jogged the last few paces to catch up.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“I am fine.” Orion said, breathless. They maneuvered to sit down on the grass, and took up the bread with trembling hands. “May this meal nourish this body, which belongs to the gods. May this meal provide us with strength to serve them, until we are called to be sacrificed. We are grateful for what we are given. So says we of the Order of the Celestial Divine, servants of the absent gods.”

Nicolas felt a familiar wave of nausea roll over him. He could have spoken the prayer right along with Orion. He almost had. He wanted to say something to make them stop. Instead he remained silent, and nibbled on some of the pieces of dried fruit he had taken along with him.

Once Orion had eaten a quarter of the bread, they set it down and kneeled. They tore a few strands of hair out of their head and with a sharp tooth ripped away at the inside of their palm. The blood welled forth and Orion began the ritual prayer. Nicolas sat nearby, straining his eyes and ears for signs of wild dogs. He almost didn't hear Orion, doing his best to block out the monotone drone of their voice, when the name _Cato_ jumped out at him because it was so unexpected.

"I offer before you an outsider by the name of Cato, whose actions demonstrated the sickness that infects those not worthy of the Order. While we disciples have taken their transgressions upon ourselves, I ask you to regard this man, who deserves your consideration for judgement and punishment, if you so will it. I am, in this instance, incapable of removing any teeth for this request, but I offer before you this body's blood, and hair, and flesh, and eternal devotion. Please turn your ear to Orion, your faithful servant."

When they were finished, they stood up, and resumed their trek, albeit at a slower pace. Nicolas scrambled up to follow.

“When I arrive, I will resume my duties at the temple to the best of my ability, regardless of what damage it has endured. You will leave me there, of course. The temple is not a place for you, and I do not need the company of those who are not welcome in it. If you wish to accompany me, you will do so only until Chamber. I am sure you would find that hamlet of depravity to your liking.”

It was dark now, with only a slice of the moon as a guide. Many times Orion tripped and stumbled over rocks; more than once, Orion fell into the dirt with an audible “oof,” and each time, it took them longer to get back up. Nicolas could hear wheezing above the swishing sound they both made through the tall grass. Orion's frail body, much used to standing, kneeling, and trotting about the temple and its grounds, was struggling to keep up under the strain of such an abrupt, prolonged journey.

They reached the crest of a steep hill that Nicolas was sure he recognized. Dawn approached; it had not quite broken through yet, but there was enough light that Nicolas could see Whitewood in the distance. It was the same view he and Orion had when Nicolas had stopped to clean his boots. Beside him, Orion collapsed. They struggled to stand, limbs shaking, but their body would not cooperate. Still, they kept trying, pulling one arm, then one leg, then every limb beneath them, pushing against the ground, but unable to go further. Nicolas broke his silence.

“Shall I carry you?” he asked gently, crouching down beside them.

After a moment of sucking in heavy breaths, Orion answered in a weak, scratchy voice, “The word of an outsider is not to be trusted, much like a gull that nests in the garden." Orion paused to catch their breath. They swallowed around a dry throat. "But my choices are one of two, and I would prefer to die where I know the gods have been. I must ask this then: Can I trust you to take me to the temple, and not anywhere else?”

Nicolas nodded his head in the darkness. “Yes, I promise, I’ll take you there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished editing/fixing up this chapter pretty heavily, but I haven't gone back to read through and see how it actually turned out. I'm not in a good place , like, mentally to do that right now (IRL stress/anxiety/a bad decision to put caffeine in my blood) so I hope its okay! If there are any issues or mistakes.. good luck. I'm just tired of this sitting in my drafts.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh man....

Nicolas’ legs felt heavy as he trod through the grass and the mud. Just days ago he had covered this distance much quicker, but that was when he had been fueled by adrenaline and the desperate need to _escape_ and _get away._ Now he was filled with fear, and a reluctance to return to the temple, a reluctance embedded in his very core. He felt beside himself, as though in a dream, unable to believe he would willingly go back to that place.

Orion had fallen into an exhausted sleep in his arms. They were an overall small person; their height and mass were evidence that they had not had the opportunity or resources to grow in the way that someone would during a typical healthy childhood and adolescence. They stood at least a head shorter than the average person. Next to Nicolas, who stood taller than most, the difference was even greater. Still, Orion had a fierce and immutable strength of will that made them seem much bigger. At least, it counteracted the assumption of frailty or weakness one might make of someone so small.

Now unconscious and inanimate, curled up in Nicolas’ arms, they seemed fragile, and vulnerable. Their hands, covered in blood and dirt, were nestled into their lap; thin fingers curled around each other. Nicolas could feel bones shift and dig into his arms and hands even through the layer of wool between them, unprotected as they were by any body fat. Blood once more covered their face, though this time the circles around their eyes were sloppy and uneven, the lines elsewhere on their chin and brow crooked - imprecise trails their shaking hand had left. Despite this, with their face now empty of intensity and determination, they looked young, and innocent. Nicolas supposed that perhaps they were those things anyway. A surge of protectiveness overtook Nicolas and he wondered how he had ever dared to imagine casting Orion off like dead weight. He felt shame; self-loathing filled him, a familiar companion. He used people, took from them what he wanted and needed, and left when they had nothing more to give. He allied himself with others so long as it was beneficial to his own plans and agenda. He traveled, he explored new places, he enjoyed wine and sex; he had connections, and he had been working on acquiring a significant sum of wealth through illegitimate means before Brekkenridge happened.

And then the cult happened, and Orion happened. Orion, in contrast to Nicolas, was a frank and honest person who felt no need to soften any blows their words might cause. They followed what they believed was their purpose openly and without pretense, with a will stronger than steel: a near perfect antithesis to Nicolas. He felt inferior when he compared the two of them. Nicolas had nearly reached the point of giving up trying to keep his sanity and sense of self in the cult before the opportunity to escape appeared. He had been cowed, and broken, fearing pain and starvation. And when he had the chance, he had run straight back to the life he had before, his habits even putting himself and Orion in danger. Nicolas was accustomed to such a life and the risks involved, but he had hardly put any consideration into altering his behavior for Orion’s sake during their short time of freedom together. For all that he had done to prevent Orion from hurting themselves or unthinkingly regurgitating the lessons of Engel, it had been Nicolas’ own discomfort with those actions that had primarily guided him.

The cut above his eye throbbed.

Nicolas adjusted his hold on Orion and pressed on, with a renewed sense of purpose. He would bring Orion to the temple, because that is what they had asked him to do. He had promised. And he would try to remain close by, if Orion allowed it. He would be there for his friend.

 

Morning had arrived and with it the sun, and warmth. Nicolas was reaching his limit; though Orion did not weigh much, it was a lot for Nicolas to carry them while walking for so long. He had just decided to set them down and stop to sleep when he heard baying in the distance. A dog. His heart stuttered in his chest.

“Shit,” he muttered. He stopped walking, straining his ears, hoping he had simply imagined it. Then he heard it again. It came from the north, in the direction they were headed. Nicolas estimated he had reached or surpassed the point where going back to the safety of Whitewood would take just as long as going forward - only forward meant a dog that would tear them both to shreds in seconds. If there was only one. Nicolas considered skirting around the area, giving the dog a wide berth, but he wasn’t sure if it would be able to hear or smell them. He lowered Orion down onto the ground and crouched in the tall grass, waiting. He heard the dog’s howl again, closer now, and then another barked alongside it.

Nicolas grimaced and clenched his hands into tight fists. He couldn’t outrun them. If he weren't already preparing to fight for his life, he would collapse onto the dirt where he stood. He had with him a small dagger, and nothing more. There had been no chance of him being able to find a larger weapon before they departed Whitewood; even purchasing the extra food on their way out was met with unnecessary difficulty by way of haggling and raised prices; its citizens evidently took Cato’s mark quite seriously. The beggars didn’t have the mark because they were beggars; they were beggars because they had the mark. 

The two dogs barked nearby, so close now that Nicolas could hear them panting. The grassy field they trotted in rustled and parted at their approach. Nicolas thought about every little choice he had ever made that had led to this moment, he and Orion about to be devoured by wild dogs. He pulled out his dagger and stood over Orion, bracketing their small frame between his feet in a defensive stance. If this was how his life ended, he would not go down without a fight.

 

“What have you found there, Abby?” a voice said not too far away. Nicolas whipped his head around and saw, emerging from the far slope of the hill, the top of a head, covered in scraggly brown hair, tied back and away. Then they met one another's gaze but the woman marched forward until they were no more than a few feet apart. She took in the sight before her of Nicolas standing with a dagger in hand above an unconscious Orion, in an empty field. The woman’s eyebrows raised when her eyes traveled down and saw Orion, clad in black robes and had a face painted with blood. One of the dogs came up from behind the woman and trotted towards Nicolas and Orion, stopping to snuffle into Orion’s hair.

“Don’t-” Nicolas said, shoving away at the dog. It was then that the first - Abby, he supposed - approached as well, sniffing at Nicolas’ boot. With one hand trying to keep the second dog at bay, Nicolas used the other that held the dagger to shoo at Abby. The dog growled lowly with the weapon in its face.

“Please,” Nicolas said, looking to the woman in desperation. “Please let us go. We’re just trying to get to the temple.”

“The temple?” the woman repeated. It obviously meant something to her, but Nicolas couldn’t quite tell what it was.

Nicolas used his head to gesture down at Orion. “My… friend, they wanted to go back. I’m just trying to help them.”

“‘Back’” the woman parroted with disgust. “No one with a brain’d want to go back there. You with the rest of them? You one of Engel’s?”

Nicolas shuddered at the name. “No, I… I mean I was, but we escaped. And Orion wanted to go back. I promised I would take them.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. She studied them more thoughtfully, and jerked her chin at them. “Looks young.”

Nicolas frowned. “I-I guess so? Twenty winters, at least. Probably not much more than that, I don’t think.”

The woman stroked her chin, absently teasing at the hairs that grew there. Then she let her hand fall back down to her side. “Abby! Rhea! Leave these two alone. We’ll find you something else to eat.” The dogs gave one last sniff to Nicolas and Orion before galloping back to circle around their owner. Nicolas sagged in relief, nearly dropping his dagger. He tottered on his feet. His body screamed at him for sleep.

“You look near dead on your feet.” She tsked. “Come with me, then,” the woman said, beckoning Nicolas with a hand. He shook his head.

"Thank you, but we can rest here."

The woman cooed. "Do you think so? Are you hoping to be eaten alive?" She looked out over the fields. "I've got a bed. We’re not too far from the house, if you can carry your friend.”

“House?” Nicolas asked. During their escape, he had not seen any houses between the temple and Whitewood, unless…

The woman’s face stretched into a dangerous smile, revealing crooked teeth. “If you’re from the temple, then you should know exactly where we are.” She slapped Nicolas’ back. “Welcome to Chamber.”


End file.
